


Perfection

by Kantayra



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark's perfection was death, power, and Sydney Bristow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so I can't stay away from Sark's pretty, pretty ass. :P This is sort of Sarkney-ish, although I suppose its more proper pairing is Sark/Sark's right hand. :P The Alias fandom really just begs a lot of masturbation fics, IMHO, since it really does require quite a bit of work to get Sark's tab A into Sydney's slot B and keep it in character. It's almost impossible to do so in a one-shot, sadly. Not that I won't continue to try.

The fine lines on the pigeon’s feathers formed an intricate tapestry, an almost infinitesimal symmetry from this range, the tiniest of perfections. Sark approved of perfection, in all its forms. It was an unreachable but ever-tantalizing goal, and he kept it always in his sights just as he did the lone pigeon.

There was something infinitely satisfying about holding the life of another being in his hands. All the more so when that being had no clue its existence could be cut off in a heartbeat. At the moment the pigeon lived in blissful ignorance solely because Sark willed it so. Not that he cared one way or another about the bird’s existence, but killing it would be a pointless venture and one which would attract attention when he needed to bide his time. With some reluctance, he pulled the scope back to see the bricks of the plaza, the mosaic, finally the square itself. From perfect order to human chaos in only a few seconds. It was depressing in a way.

The plaza was more crowded now than it had been when he’d arrived and set up. In the pre-dawn hours, Venice was calm and still. But now, life was stirring once more. Merchants setting up shop, hoping to attract whatever tourists there were in the off-season. Men and women in business suits headed for various offices. Children on their way to school. He could follow them all with the scope of his sniper rifle, imagine their lives down to each mundane detail, and then move on to the next mark.

It was strange to think that such people existed in the same world he did. He counted on them, of course, blended in among them when it suited him to conceal himself. But there were hundreds of people below, none of whom could ever envision crossing paths with someone like them. Many most likely had difficulty comprehending that someone like him could exist. He was worlds apart from them and yet so close he could snuff out any of their lives on a whim. It made him all the more grateful he wasn’t just another of the potential victims-to-be in the never-ending turmoil below.

In the distance, a church clock struck the hour. He hadn’t been checking his watch – hadn’t needed to – because even without the affirmation of time, he would’ve known when his target was approaching. He could see the signs even now. Several more uniformed police officers than usual, a street sweeper who was keeping just a bit too much of an eye on the surrounding civilians, the general slowing of traffic. Someone important was coming. It was obvious to any eyes that bothered to look. Of course, most didn’t.

He heard the first exclamations of surprise as his target arrived on the scene. A famous, influential face that all would recognize. Crowds gathered and were held back by security forces, but Sark had the best view of all from his vantage point several stories above. He watched deceptively congenial wrinkles form as the target smiled at his audience. A grin that belied the very precarious position he’d put himself in, the organizations he’d betrayed, the power he sought in opposition to the wishes of Sark’s employers.

The first shot took his face clean off. Not recognizable any longer.

The slightest smile curved Sark’s lips at the people’s screams as he turned from the window and quickly disassembled the rifle. Deadly weapon to harmless looking briefcase in twenty seconds. He took the elevator, not because it was fastest but because he couldn’t afford to look out of breath when he rejoined the masses. All good assassins had the ability to make themselves invisible, and Sark was better than any other he knew.

The elevator door dinged on the ground floor, and he slipped his sunglasses carefully into place as he stepped into the lobby. News of the disaster the next block over hadn’t reached this location yet. Just as he’d hoped, although he hadn’t counted on it; it was never wise to count on something as fickle as human gossip.

He attracted several looks, entirely from the female of the species, as he walked out of the lobby, but he would be perfectly unmemorable to them. If they did have the intellect to associate him with the shooting, all they’d remember would be ‘tall, handsome, dark-haired.’ And that was only if they had the most extraordinary of memories.

He slipped out into the bustle of the street easily. By now, the panicked cries had reached the bystanders. But, with his suit and briefcase, he looked just like any of a dozen businessmen who, in their arrogance, distained those around them. Only when they caught the news later would they realize just how close they’d been to history. Within days, they’d undoubtedly have devised elaborate scenarios that hid their true obliviousness. Sark hoped that at least one would report a ‘suspicious-looking man’ who resembled him in no way whatsoever. Those were always the most amusing to read about.

The police arrived on the scene as Sark turned from the building entrance. Half a dozen officers, highly agitated, dashed into the building next to his. He smiled to himself as he turned the corner and vanished from sight. What they’d find in the appropriate apartment was a rather dull-witted young woman by the name of Sofia, who would be thoroughly baffled by their accusations and would eventually remember that last night she’d invited an attractive young man back to her apartment before passing out from entirely too much wine. The wine had, of course, been drugged, but the police investigation would never turn in that direction. Because by then some scientist in some laboratory would have pointed out that the force of impact indicated an origin point several hundred feet further back, and eventually the authorities would come to the correct conclusion that poor Sofia’s open windows had merely provided a through-shot for the sniper who had truly resided in the building next door all along.

It would be a perfect blend of human intelligence and stupidity all in one. Yes, Sark was quite sure he’d enjoy watching this investigation.

He walked four blocks, past the outer ring of disruption he’d caused and into the mundane mill of everyday life in the city. No one paid him any attention, just as he pretended to ignore them. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve loved to have ignored them as well, but he wasn’t fully clear of the kill-zone yet, and excessive arrogance led to errors. Just the right amount of arrogance, however, was quite enjoyable.

The Ferrari was in the garage where he’d left it. He tossed his briefcase casually onto the seat beside him, double-checked to make sure he wasn’t on any of the security cameras, and removed the black wig. His scalp itched lightly from the heat of the wig, and he ruffled his hair absentmindedly as he started the engine.

All it took was a heavy foot and a cheap fascination with loud noises to make the tires squeal, but with an engine like this, it took true finesse to move through the streets with grace and speed, but also quiet. Sark managed the later with the assuredness with which he did everything else. It wasn’t long before he was out of the city and into the countryside, the wind in his hair and the warm Italian sun on his nose. And, in that moment, he decided that this was perfection, indeed.

A smile tugged on the edges of his lips as he pulled up to his vista. Lackeys aplenty took care of his rifle and moved his car into the old carriage house. He left them with strict orders not to disturb him unless the perimeter was violated and retired to his room.

Sark liked to surround himself with a sort of simple elegance that was both lavish and Spartan at the same time. His homes were no exception, and while his room was devoid of nearly all personal belongs aside from several weapons, a few books, and clothing, all the room's furnishings were expensive and of the finest quality.

He loosened his tie as he entered the bedroom and paused before the full-length mirror. Slowly, he removed his sunglasses and looked himself in the eyes. If old moral adages had any truth to them, his so-called conscience should have inflected his reflection with self-loathing. Fortunately for him, such notions had been created by superstitious simpletons intent on manipulating the world by enforcing their own whims with human guilt. He could almost admire the sheer scope of the moral conspiracy; it was an impressive thing, really, so many fools holding themselves back, containing their true power simply out of self-imposed fear and shame.

He smiled slowly at his reflection, pleased with what he saw. It was no wonder he had turned more than his fair share of heads. Handsome and young, deadly and ambitious. He couldn’t be happier with himself, really.

The blood was still burning in his veins from the earlier kill. He felt excited, both tensed and relaxed at the same time. It was a thrilling rush of adrenaline and one he’d savor for as long as it lasted.

There were few things in life that Sark did casually, but this was the one time he allowed himself to indulge. Fresh from the kill, power and an almost god-like giddiness running through him. These were definitely moments to be savored.

He dropped his tie and jacket haphazardly on the desk chair, the only disorder in his otherwise tidy room. His unfastened his watch and left it on the nightstand along with his sunglasses. Shoes and socks were kicked off absentmindedly as he unfastened the buttons of his shirt slowly, almost hypnotically. It went with the jacket on the chair. A shame to treat such a fine suit in such a way, but he was impatient now, almost hungry.

He let his undershirt and pants fall to the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed, turning so that he could once more see himself in the mirror. A lazy smile curved his lips as he slid back against the pillows, gazing at his reflection as he did so. He’d always enjoyed watching himself move. There was a grace and agility to his movements that he’d cultivated and perfected over the years. It had served him well both in battle and in seduction, but every so often he just enjoyed using it on himself.

He was almost painfully hard by now, the effect of such a precise kill. The blood of life flowed in his veins, even as it turned cold in his victim’s. He didn’t touch himself just yet, however. The silk of his boxers caressed his erection in an erotic manner, and he was more than content to watch himself in the mirror, appreciating the sight of his nearly nude and highly aroused body. There were women, such as dear, dimwitted Sofia of last night, who coveted such a sight. Quite a few men, as well. Sark denied most, if not all. He’d earned his reputation for aloofness over the years, enjoyed turning away those who deemed themselves worthy but most certainly were not. He smiled at his reflection knowingly, pleased that he could enjoy this moment all by himself. There were those, he knew, who would have killed to be here with him right now.

His head fell lazily back onto the pillows, and he settled his body into the soft cotton sheets. He looked at nothing in particular, choosing to gaze inwards instead. Almost of its own accord, his right hand – his killing hand – trailed down his chest, fingers grazing flesh so slightly, it could almost have been a gust of wind.

His body tightened at the sensation, and his cock hardened further. The silk was no longer cool relief against his aching head, but a hindrance, keeping him from his pleasure. He disposed of the shorts in one easy pull and lay back completely nude.

His mind returned to the moment of death as his fingers finally wrapped around his hardness. The near silence as he focused in on the sight, that moment of perfect stillness, and then his finger pulled the trigger smoothly, easily, and the world exploded into sound, color, and death.

A hitch of breath caught in his throat as his fingers wrapped around this length, stroking up and down with that same smooth skill. Fingers that could kill or bring pleasure just as easily.

He could feel the throbbing of his veins through the soft skin of his cock and began pumping himself fast. The rough calluses on his trigger finger grated against his most sensitive flesh. It was almost too much, and short gasps began escaping his throat. He bit them back, however. Even in release, control could be enjoyable. The harder he fought orgasm, the more satisfying it ultimately was.

He saw the red of blood in his mind’s eye, white feathers falling to the ground as the frantic pigeons fled for their lives. Indignant birds circling over the death and destruction. The perfect image, and it was all his.

His hand was slow and languid now. He reached down and lightly caressed his balls, palming them with careful attention before returning his hand to his shaft. He knew some people looked down on self-pleasure, as something one would only do could one not find a partner for the evening. Sark viewed it in quite the opposite way. He could have any woman he wanted tonight, if he so chose, but none of them would be worthy of his bed, his highly skilled attentions. The world was filled with mediocre minds, mediocre lovers, mediocre people. And Sark settled only for the best. He wanted a worthy companion for the day and so he spent it alone. After all, he was the most worthy company he knew.

Well, that wasn’t _quite_ true…

In that moment, his mind flashed upon a memory of dark, infuriated eyes. A lush warrior’s body that met his blow for blow. The same face haunting his every step, even as she tried to disguise her features with an endless array of wigs and identities. He would always know her, though. One predator could never fail to recognize another among the sheep.

He realized belatedly that his hand had sped up at the mere thought of CIA Agent Sydney Bristow. His body was shaking slightly with need, and if he hadn’t caught himself just then, he would have come. But he forced himself to slow down, half resenting her intrusion into his thoughts. After all, this moment was supposed to be his and his alone.

However, if there was any woman worthy of sharing this with him, he decided that Sydney Bristow would be she. Fantasies were quite frivolous things, but he allowed himself to indulge just this once. The perfection of the kill, followed by returning home to find one of the few women in the world as perfectly trained as he was. She would be naked in his bed when he returned, but then she’d turn to see him, and her eyes would turn dark and dangerous, the way they always did before she attacked him. This attack would be quite different, however.

She would be confident and assertive in bed, he was positive. She’d tackle him back onto the mattress and take what she wanted. It would be a struggle, of course, to achieve his own goals as well. But victory was hardly worth anything if it was easy to achieve.

She’d tease him mercilessly, though, before giving in. Their nude bodies would twine, struggle for supremacy, but then finally he would pin her, and in that one moment he’d thrust his way home and…

“Sydney, _yes_!”

He came into his hand violently, his eyes squeezed shut tight as pleasure raked through his body. All his hard-won control crumbled to nothing in that moment, and he was forced to give in, to just _be_ instead of to be Sark. Even as he fell, he could see her satisfied eyes when she realized what her body could do to him so very easily.

But only if he let her.

He clung to that last thought, holding it as his security as he came down from his post-orgasmic high. His stomach and hand were sticky with come, and his cock was once more soft and satisfied. It was horribly messy and imperfect, but at that moment he could hardly care. That was the sacrifice one made for that moment of true perfection, after all. Perfect order always fell to entropy.

He let himself lie for a moment, two, three. Endless obligations weighed on his shoulders, forced him to exist without faults, so relishing this one weak moment when his limbs seemed to have turned to jelly was quite the forbidden fruit and all the sweeter because of it. Even if he could only afford to enjoy it for a few minutes.

Sure enough, his cell phone rang, and he picked it up with his clean left hand. A few comments later, and a smile curved his lips.

He rose to clean up, fully Sark once more, and couldn’t help but feel the excitement rise up within him again. After all, he thrived on the challenge, on the danger. And, given his reaction to the mere thought of Sydney Bristow, he’d soon be facing both every day.

The shower water was cold and shocking on his heated flesh, but he welcomed it. In scarcely a few hours, a new plan would be set in motion, one which would get him closer to the object of his desire than he’d ever have dared hoped. He suspected he’d need quite a few cold showers in the days to come, but the game, the hunt, the reward…

Well, those would be simply perfect.


End file.
